Commonwealth Magazine: Winter 2023

WHY I MADE IT

BY MOE FRUMKIN ’23

Before making a pot, I always hesitate for a second, staring at the formless hunk of clay sitting asymmetrically on the wheel. Eventually, I imagine the form I want to turn it into, but this initial vision, as grounding and useful as it is, rarely lasts unchanged through the process. It’s one thing to imagine a mug or bowl and a very different thing to actually make one.

As a pot passes through each step— wedging, throwing, trimming, bisque firing, glaze firing—there are countless choices I need to make, from the type and amount of clay to the glazing technique to use. For most of these choices, there is no obvious answer. No right amount of clay or right color of glaze. And each choice has implications for the pot down the line: you can’t change the color of clay to match the glaze better or change the shape of the rim once you’re trimming it. It’s also impossible to try every combination of possibilities. This is why I hesitate in the first place, thinking about the decisions I will face. I know I won’t settle the uncertainties—I couldn’t even if I wanted to—but I try to start with some direction, making some of the choices and leaving the rest open.

I started ceramics last fall and was instantly captivated by the art form. I found throwing wheely interesting yet surprisingly meditative. Since a lopsided pot will only get more lopsided further along in the process, centering has been a challenge for me. It requires force to center a pot but also precision. If you let go too quickly, the pot will become uneven. Throwing makes me pay attention and be intentional with

even the slightest movements I make. As a result, when I throw, I am present in the moment, watching carefully as the form spins and feeling the clay beneath my fingers.

I like the challenge of making pots that are functional as well as art. This adds a whole new set of considerations to be taken into account when I work on a pot: I need to imagine how it will be used, how I want to interact with the finished product. Bowls should be light; their insides and outsides should complement each other. Cups should fit neatly into your hand. This isn’t separate from the artistic challenge of making an elegant form. Useful pots are often pleasant to look at, but elegant useful pots are, in my experience, more pleasant to use.

After I have made all the choices that are inherent with pottery, there is still the final waiting period of firing. Only then, when a bowl emerges from the kiln, say, is it clear to me whether it is a soup bowl or cereal bowl or ice cream bowl.

To me, the most rewarding part of ceramics is not the pots I get to take home but the experience. Ceramics makes me think—about form and color and function—but it also makes me be there in the moment as the wheel hums on.

Most of my days at Commonwealth are spent squarely in the here-and-now, but, occasionally, they are randomly punctuated by memories from my time as a student here. I’ll glance into a classroom and notice a particular poster on the wall; in a flash, I’ll realize the same poster hung there when I sat (often nervously) in Mr. Chatfield’s English class. I am then immediately catapulted back to a very particular moment in that classroom, listening to Mr. Chatfield and wondering to myself whether it was actually humanly possible for a poet’s brain to weave all of those tacit meanings and ambiguities into that one stanza. (As you will read later in CM, Commonwealth’s tradition of close reading persists.)

It’s resonant and at times disorienting when my past seeps into the present. Those moments prompt me to ask what’s different about Commonwealth in the twenty-first century and what persists as part of our school’s essence over time. Strip away the cell phones, the politics of our age, the fashion choices—and what is exactly as it was?

The short answer is the spectacular faculty. They define the unchanging heart of Commonwealth and continue to create moments of helpful clarity and fruitful confusion. They are remarkably attuned to each student’s needs and deeply engaged in the work of educating them as a collective. They create classrooms where a forest of hands shoots up in response to a question.

My own memories are full of moments in the classroom with those teachers where it felt like my brain was literally tingling. Their presence remains vivid: Mr. Guillermo’s staccato prompts in Spanish class, Ms. Segaloff’s amused guidance about a lopsided ceramic pot, Mrs. Chatfield’s patient glance over her half-moon glasses. I cannot separate the idea or the book from the teacher who led me through it.

In this issue of CM, we remember one of those teachers, Eric Davis, whose remarkable tenure at Commonwealth spanned four decades. Forty years of Commonwealth students, myself included, experienced his wit, zest, and deep pleasure in words. Forty years of us benefited from his generous feedback, literary passion, and genial humor. I took creative writing with Mr. Davis and recall that he was adept at finding the moments of energy in a draft, helping us bushwhack through all of the clichés, and nudging us toward a better second version. (You will find information about our memorial service for Eric on page 8; I hope to connect with many of you there.)

When I think of all of the gifted teachers from my time here, I’m again taken to a moment in Mr. Chatfield’s classroom and my first encounter with Yeats’s “Among School Children.” It’s an elegiac poem, narrated by an older man as he tours a classroom. It was no mean feat to place ourselves inside the experience of rueful old age (and teenagers continue to believe they will always be young), but the beauty of Yeats’s prosody caught me even so. And now as I continue to look at Commonwealth with my bifocal lenses, shifting my glance between then and now, I think of a line from that poem: “How can we know the dancer from the dance?” I think all that I was taught was inextricably linked to those who taught it to me, and I remain grateful for the past and the present.

Jennifer Borman ’81 Head of School

Commonwealth School Alumni/ae Magazine

Issue 23

Winter 2023

Editor-in-Chief

Jessica Tomer

Editor Catherine Brewster

Assistant Editor

Claire Jeantheau

Contributing Writers

Jennifer Borman ’81

Catherine Brewster

Moe Frumkin ’23

Claire Jeantheau

Jessica Tomer

Lillien Waller

Contributing Art and Design

Printing

Hannaford and Dumas

CM is published twice a year by Commonwealth School, 151 Commonwealth Avenue, Boston, MA 02116, and distributed without charge to alumni/ae, current and former parents, and other members of the Commonwealth community. Opinions expressed in CM are those of the authors and subjects, and do not necessarily represent the views of the School or its faculty and students.

We welcome feedback: communications@commschool.org. Letters and notes may be edited for style, length, clarity, and grammar.

Printed on recycled paper. Please recycle.

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Martina Ardisson

Zoe Beatty ’05

Karen Blumberg

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Tim Daw Photography

Claire Jeantheau

Alex Kahn

Tom Kates ’87

Eliza Lamster ’24

Sophia Michahelles ’93

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Jessica Tomer

On the cover: A sketch of Eric Davis by Jean Segaloff, retired ceramics teacher

Remembering Mr. Davis

The facts of Eric Davis’s life at Commonwealth tell their own story: He taught here for forty-one years, from 1972 until 2013, alongside his wife, fellow English teacher Judith Siporin. No fewer than one thousand Commonwealth students matriculated over that time, including his three children, John Davis ’89, Theo Davis ’90, and Sam Davis ’08. But those facts only hint at the profound impact he had on this school and the people passing through it.

Eric’s former students, reflecting on his influence, don’t descend into hyperbole; they learned better. Yet, remembering their old teacher, they still evoke a towering figure, someone impossibly kind, witty, and insightful, as willing to spend an afternoon counseling them through personal setbacks as he was able to sharpen their thinking, fundamentally and forever, in the classroom. He was and he did all of those things and more, as the alumni/ae, colleagues, and friends on these pages can attest.

Mr. Davis and I had an odd, polar kind of relationship weirdly mimicking symmetry: I was the worst advisee anyone at Commonwealth ever had to endure, and Mr. Davis was the absolute best advisor. I arrived at Commonwealth with hard-core baggage from earlier in my childhood, spiked with fresh new adolescent rage, and a readiness to jettison my academic future in some outburst of defiance, but Advisor Davis, as I affectionately called him, was having none of it. He met with me weekly—forty-five minutes at a stretch— and showed a deep love and empathy that helped me start fighting for myself and my future. He clearly understood that he was the “safest” target for my misdirected anger: he would endure cascades of tantrum and torment from me and then quietly set me back on track, in his uniquely gentle, soft-spoken way. He even paid the fee for one of my college applications with no “warning,” knowing that I needed a modicum of support. My life is good because of him.

—Dan McLellan ’84

nnn

When I think of why I came to Commonwealth, I remember so many older teachers I admired and learned from, but I think first of Eric. It seemed as if he could see more in a page of Joyce or a teenager’s glance in about two seconds than the rest of us could in a semester. He missed nothing about the foibles and posturing of the characters, fictional and real, who surrounded him, yet somehow he also could regard them with limitless compassion and delight. Every time I feel good about the way a class or a meeting went, part of me is imagining that he would approve.

—Catherine Brewster, English Teacher (Turn to page 8 for a poem Eric submitted to The Leek in 2006, still used in Catherine’s English 9 classes.)

nnn

When I was a new student at Commonwealth in the ’90s, my school job was to empty the wastebaskets. Once, I happened into Mr. Davis’s office to empty his wastebasket of papers. I don’t recall how he noticed that something was troubling me (it’s possible that I was crying). He asked me gently about my life as I sat down there in his office and spoke to him about what was giving me trouble. He listened and was so very kind and genuinely interested. Eventually, when I was heading out, on to the next wastebasket perhaps, I said, “I’m sorry I stole your afternoon.” He shook my hand and with his sudden and delighted smile—which I will remember forever—said, “On the contrary. You made it.” I lucked into having him for English both of my years at Commonwealth and took Intellectual History with him, too. Those classes and time with him shaped my ideas about the world in a fundamental way that has been with me since. We stayed in touch, and he shared sage advice at so many of my transitional stages and shared poems that have been one of the great delights of my life and have maintained my fundamental love of poems and talking about them. He encouraged me to put mine down into a book, arrange them on the page, consider how I’d want to present them. I wouldn’t have dared try it without his encouragement. I will never, never forget Mr. Davis. I thank him for the many things he did to enrich my life. And if some of my poems manage to survive me, he is the reason they do.

—Sarah Kolitz ’97

Image credit: Tom Kates ’87

Mr. Eric Davis pierced our jaded skins with his infectious smiles. Our immune systems could never repel his encouragement to reserve judgment and criticism: not to scar ourselves or our writing with it but rather to apply it with reductive insight to the poems of D.H. Lawrence or Heart of Darkness. While it is true that people may catch more flies with honey, Mr. Davis chose to cultivate queens and workers, never drones, to build a multitude of healthy hives that pollinate countless fields of free-living flowers.

—Hy Carrel ’97

deliberately. I probably still would have majored in English without his influence, but the comments he wrote in that blue book of mine kept me going through some hard times. He was not the only teacher who was a formative influence on me, but he gave me the key and helped me open a door to a world that has brought so much joy into my life, and I have used the approach he taught me when guiding others into the world of literary analysis. Rest well, Mr. Davis. You were a scholar and a gentleman, and it was an honor to learn from you.

—Kate Potter ’09

One of the many good things about Commonwealth during my time there was the presence of Eric and Judith, who epitomized everything that made the school such a welcoming, caring, and humane, but also academically rigorous and intense, place to teach and to learn. Eric and Judith were role models for me, both as teachers and as human beings. Every interaction I had with them lifted my spirits and made me proud to work at Commonwealth. Eric Davis was a person who improved the quality of so many lives. The world is a much poorer place without him.

—Tom Harsanyi, Former History Teacher

Mr. Davis was, and always will be, one of the defining characters of my life. Commonwealth was not an easy time for me, but Mr. Davis was always willing to help, both academically and personally. I will miss him dearly.

—Eric Li ’10

For years, Eric kept a frayed, stained index card pinned to the corkboard in his office. On it in his neat handwriting was a quotation from a student: “It’s all pretty boring until you start to think about it.” The speaker sounds surprised to have been jolted out of adolescent ennui. Eric was surely amused by the self-assuredness of “It’s all pretty boring.” But I wonder if Eric kept the quotation on view also to remind himself and his students of why he was teaching—to help kids discover how to go about noticing what matters. He himself seemed an expert in that kind of inquiry. Everything, and everyone, interested him, the quirkier the better. He was endlessly curious, turning objects over in his hands to appreciate them, studying pictures closely, relishing overheard talk, asking playful questions. Often, in late afternoon, I would come across him in the shadowed, nearly empty building, chatting quietly with a student he’d come across. I suspect they felt as privileged as I did to engage with his generous and original mind.

—Mary Kate Bluestein, Former English Teacher

Mr. Davis treated every kid at Commonwealth as his one of students. He was gracious. I remember him always taking the time to give rave reviews about my theater performances. I also remember how he laughed at my Hancock poster: Cookie Monster wants you to bake cookies. It’s the small things that can enrich a student’s experience at school, and I am grateful to have known Mr. Davis.

—Lorena Molina Cecchetti ’08

I had many special moments with Eric Davis—a nicely placed compliment could mean so much from him, and I still recall a couple. I will always love the man. My favorite story that he told us was about the tough older kids in his school who would come up to him and say, “How’s your ass?” As a survivor of middle-school bullying, I could appreciate how that question was confusing and intimidating. Some years after graduation, I ran into him and asked in jest that rude question. Gentle soul that he was, he furrowed his brow and told the story over again.

—Will Brownsberger ’74 nnn

I was lucky enough to have him for English 11. The final exam that year was on The Great Gatsby, and something about the question he posed, combined with the gentle, persistent, and patient (up to a point) guidance he had provided all year, caused literary analysis to really click in my brain. I still treasure the A- I earned on that final; he was not one to give A’s lightly, so I use the word “earned”

Eric once gave me this advice (as I recall it): “Sometimes you just need to stop class and ask the kids why we are studying this stuff. Students become so caught up in ‘achievement’ that they no longer pay attention to the meaning of what they are learning for their understanding of the world, and they only think about what the teacher might want rather than what a text is telling them.” I felt liberated to follow my instincts and do the unexpected. Some of my best discussions happened when I interrupted the assigned topic to ask that question. Later, Eric gave another version of this story to the whole school, asking, “What is the purpose of success at Commonwealth? Is it to get into the best college, leading to the best career, leading to the best family, house, stuff, leading to the best spot in the best cemetery?” As always, his words were daring, spare, and true.

—Barb Grant, Retired History and Latin Faculty

One day, sitting in the lobby on top of the cabinets, I asked Mr. Davis his favorite band. He thought briefly and said, “The Fugs.” It was not an opinion I shared then nor now. Still, the answer filled me with delight, as I think it was intended to do. It reminded me that even in a school of oddballs, he was an oddball. That felt important. Especially as he was enough of an oddball to defend my staying at Commonwealth despite a perpetual state of probation, academic and otherwise. I was always, uh, fugging up; he decided to make the oddball case for me, and stood

by it. I was deeply grateful then, and remain so now; it was a true kindness at a time when I needed that more than I knew. A million small acts make a life, and Eric’s acts of persistent generosity are part of what made mine. His capacity for, and grace with, such things are part of what made his—and made it so exceptional.

—Joshua (Kaplan) Clover ’80

When Eric interviewed me for a teaching position back in 2005, his questions quickly made clear that here was a literary, witty, thoughtful mensch who cared deeply about not just Literature-with-a-capital-L, but also the stories that arise from simply being human. He wanted to hear details of an essay I was working on (about the curious miscellany of objects in my then very young packrat–son’s backpack). We happily discovered that we both had sons named Sam and shared an appreciation for Gertrude Stein. His droll descriptions of the challenges and delights of teaching Commonwealth students left me enticed and curious. Observing Eric’s English 9 class was a revelation. He presided with a light hand. His students responded in kind (kindly), with joyfully chaotic yet somehow focused banter; I emerged eager to teach, and learn, alongside this wizard. (After seventeen years, I still turn to the always wise, often funny notes about teaching that Eric passed along.) Eric embodied decency. He heard what people said and noticed how they said it. He, himself, wrote like a dream. I think of him as a magical combination of éminence grise and wise jester, a moral compass of a man, with a ready chuckle and those wonderful, beetling eyebrows, who adored clever repartee while disdaining artifice and pretension. He—as we say now—“built community” in myriad, antic ways: generating brainy, zany Gab topics at Hancock, offering tantalizing, quixotic electives. We all, Eric’s students and colleagues alike, benefited from the care and attention he lavished on us. His legacy—of careful close reading, thoughtful interrogation, and playful joie de vivre—lives on. Thank you, Mr. Davis, for being such an inspired and inspiring colleague and friend. I hold you in my heart.

—Mara Dale, English Teacher nnn

Mr. Davis was the first person in my life to signal that my writing had some special value. I had Mr. Davis for ninth-grade English. At some point early in the school year, I wrote an in-class essay—I can’t remember the subject. Mr. Davis wrote me an extensive note about it when he handed it back, which moved me deeply, and he said that he had photocopied it for his files. I had already grown to admire him so much for his sensitivity, humor, and true appreciation of literature; his validation and interest in me as a writer had an enormous impact. I still think about this moment at 41!

—Ottessa Moshfegh ’98

gathering. Unlike teachers (not Commonwealth teachers!) who might grow stale after forty years of teaching Dubliners and Hamlet, he never fell back on formula, routine, or habit. And his sympathy went naturally to the student or advisee who did not quite fit in or did not move confidently through their world. He was endlessly patient as an advisor listening for what was unique about each one’s story and ever ready to affirm the truths they could see and the challenges they faced. While Eric was most at home on the outside looking in, had sympathy for the maverick and misfit, and had a healthy skepticism of individual or institutional pretense, he recognized the importance of the school as a healthy, strong institution to provide the structure within which, on the one hand, students could play safely and unfold their talents, or against which they could buck. I miss him dearly.

—Bill Wharton, Retired Headmaster nnn

Eric Davis was my English teacher forty-five years ago! What I remember most clearly about him all those long decades ago was his kindness and the way he would listen to me with deep attention. My high school years were not easy ones, beginning with the loss of my father right before I started ninth grade. Having a wonderful teacher like Eric Davis made all the difference to me, and to this day I know my love of reading and writing was deepened by having engaging, passionate, and attentive English teachers like him.

—Hao-Li Tai ’80

nnn

It’s been years since I’ve had a lengthy conversation with Eric, but that makes no difference. Encounters with him were always vivid, worthwhile, and enduring. He generally wouldn’t say much, but he elicited much from me—and he listened with great care and intelligence. I remember once giving a talk at Commonwealth about a trip I had taken to Germany, where my stepmother had been born and where she had lived until she and her family fled the Nazis in 1940. I spoke about how challenging it had been for me there, for even though the landscape was scenic, and the people were pleasant enough, there

nnn

Whenever I heard Eric speak about his youth, it was generally a story about watching in awe as the figures around him—the jocks who got the girls, the preppies at Williams—seemed sure of their place in the spotlight. I thought of him as the shy kid, the one who took everything in and had the razor intelligence not only to absorb it all but to see through the various performances. His skill as a reader and writer—to hear and to generate any voice spot-on, from the lovelorn teen to the old crotchet irritated by the noisy youths or the hairless dog—was grounded in the sideline view he occupied. Nothing escaped his creative wit. He brought the same keen listening to his work with his English students and advisees, and his attention to the particular strengths and quirks of a given student, class, or advisee made every period, conference, and year fresh and interesting for him and for anyone who heard him talk about his kids in grading meetings or at a faculty

Eric with daughter Theo ’90 in the Merrill barn, circa 1982

“A Poem About Hancock”

By Eric Davis

My friends, life is an ever-changing cloud: Things seem forever fixed, yet float away. Hancock, dear to some of you, is one of these. Once in New Hampshire, now in Maine, it’s moving soon to Provincetown, they say. Oh yes, a lot has changed since Merrill’s time. You’ve heard about the barns on Merrill’s farm, the hay kids slept in and the colds they caught, but have you heard about the old race horse kids used to ride to town, the ice-cream wars, the bear hunts in the hills, the ring of fire kids had to jump through when they skipped their jobs? Those were the days, my friends! At Talent Night a squad of goons dragged bad acts from the stage, the fields caught fire, lightning struck the barn, kids wrote whole novels in an afternoon. Nobody went to bed. Food cooked itself. Baseball was played on stilts; freshmen grew in size while teachers motorcycled to and fro talking of Michelangelo. Why Hancock had to move I won’t say now. We fought the locals off, I’ve heard. The garbage pits gave up their dead. The buses left at breakneck speed.

A Tribute to Eric Davis

April 22, 2023

First Church in Boston

This spring, the Commonwealth community will gather to celebrate Eric Davis’s life, alongside his family. We hope you can join us. Please save the date and monitor your email for more information. Questions in the interim can be sent to Director of Advancement Alisha Elliottt ’01, aelliott@commschool.org

was something about the place that left me uneasy. During the Q&A, Eric asked me to asked me to elaborate. I thought for a moment and then said that it wasn’t what I was seeing that disturbed me; it was the ghosts. At that moment, Eric took an audible breath—and the expression on his face made it clear that he understood exactly what I was saying.

—Rabbi Carl Perkins, Former Chemistry Teacher nnn

I had the delightful blessing to have Mr. Davis for ninth-grade English. Being in his class was an incredible introduction to Commonwealth in so many ways—to have this teacher who truly believed words and writing were the only things that mattered, who loved language with every fiber of his body. Whose kindness, humility, care, and razor wit were apparent in every class. I remember in finals he posed several required essay questions on the books we’d read as a class, and then a choice of options for a section of the test. One option was a series of poetry prompts he’d dreamed up, and though we hadn’t written any poetry in the class (only analyzed it) it was exciting and provocative to have my teacher just challenge me to go ahead and write a bunch of poems. I went for it. Though I haven’t written more than a handful of poems since then, my work is pretty much as a writer and editor. I thank Mr. Davis for shaping my love of words into skills that have served for decades.

—Rebecca Ennen ’00

I called Eric “Teacher” because I spent two years in his classroom auditing English 10 and an African Literature elective. What a gentle, brilliant educator and kind man! We students loved him and felt lighter in his presence. Eric tiptoed. His speech was light, his ideas genius, and his writing exquisite. He was both darling and giant. We were lucky he loved teaching mortals. I recently told my children that my copy of Macbeth is my greatest literary treasure. Why? Because it has my notes from Eric’s class. I cannot tutor a student without those notes. My gratitude (and love) for Eric is boundless.

—Jaquelin Harris, English Tutor and School Editor

Eric walking to school with Judith Siporin, “a timeless couple” at a date unknown

Mermaids Overseas

After a pandemic hiatus, past summer, French Spanish students once had the opportunity the worlds from their their teacher, Jérémie Korta, attractions such as the Louvre, Luxembourg, amongst trips gem theaters, and too many by Spanish teachers Mónica immersed themselves in the Machu Picchu. They also learned after spending some quality each trip, students flexed the during their time in the classroom

Student Group Provides Gender Affinity Space

This fall, Commonwealth’s Feminism Club was revived as FEMpower, Gialil ’25, Alissa Lopes ’25, Ayala Malcolm ’25, Sarah McPeek ’25, Youssef ’25 One of Commonwealth’s affinity (for students with a (for students in solidarity with a particular identity group) organizations, calendar includes both sessions open to the full school community and non-binary students to share experiences in a supportive space. As co-founder operates with a strong focus on community service and advocating for women

Students and Chaperones in Paris

Alex Li ’22, Vivian Ye ’22, and Sophia Ying ’22

Avery Selk ’23

Students and Chaperones in Peru

National Merit Semifinalists

Twenty-two of this year’s forty-two seniors have been recognized in the 2023 National Merit Scholarship Program, as either Semifinalists or Commended students. Our six Semifinalists, representing the state of Massachusetts, are:

n Will Du ’23

n Moe Frumkin ’23

n Linda He ’23

n Ella McKee ’23

n Victor Na ’23

n David Wang ’23

They join a nationwide pool of approximately 16,000 students, representing less than 1% of graduating high-school seniors in the U.S. and including the highest-scoring entrants in each state. Finalists will be announced in February of 2023, and National Merit Scholarship winners will be announced between April and July.

An additional sixteen Commonwealth seniors received notice of the National Merit Letter of Commendation for ranking among the top 3% of test takers nationally:

n Jo Axel ’23

n Charles Brainin ’23

n Kendall Brainin ’23

n Alex Choi ’23

n Ayla Denenberg ’23

n Romen Der Manuelian ’23

n Eliza Fried ’23

n Parth Garg ’23

n Nathan Leung ’23

n Jason Li ’23

n Peter Luo ’23

n Daniel Martin ’23

n Ben O’Donnell ’23

n Kian Park ’23

n Henry Stepanyants ’23

n Meredith Teague ’23

The Cold Can’t Stop Hancock

This year’s Hancock, our second at Camp Kingswood in Piermont, New Hampshire, may have been one of the chilliest on record, with temps just around freezing. But with help from our Commonwealth sweatshirts and many hot beverages, we braved the weather and had an outstanding time. We hiked together;

continued traditional pumpkin carving, apple picking, and pie baking; built trebuchets; squared off in Ultimate Frisbee and (American and international) football; and read selections from War and Peace . A talent show, the illumination of the pumpkins, and an epic glow-in-the-dark Capture the Flag game all lit up the final night of another Hancock to remember.

Autumn Athletic Accomplishments

Abanner fall sports season made enthusiastic spectators of us all. After finishing first place in the Massachusetts Bay Independent League with a near-unbroken run of wins, Boys’ Soccer beat their friendly rivals at Boston University Academy to become league champions. The Girls’ Soccer team made great strides this season, too, winning shutout matches against Woodward Academy and Bradford Christian Academy.

Cross Country runners Ella Sherry ’25, Juliana Li ’26, and Will Du ’23 were recognized as league All-Stars at the championship meet following a string of top-ten finishes throughout the season. Perhaps even more inspiring, though, has been the surge of camaraderie at 151 Comm. Ave., from raucus cheers greeting team updates at recess to students wearing head-to-toe Commonwealth red (including on their fingernails) to show their support.

Jay Sweitzer-Shalit ’24

Genevieve Robinson ’24

Oliver Grant ’25

Margaret Hines ’23 and Aritra Ghosh ’25

Director of DEI Lisa Palmero McGrath paints Moe Frumkin’s (’23) nails before a big BUA game

Cross Country Team

Boys’ Soccer Team

Girls’ Soccer Team

9 Is Our Magic Number

Looking to the Future at Fall Assemblies

What will you do after high school—not just in college but in life? It’s a question that many Commonwealth students mull over, and our assembly speakers this fall were uniquely equipped to help. A timely discussion of recent Supreme Court decisions by former Solicitor General Charles Fried P’79, ’81, GP’19, ’23 engaged students with issues they will encounter as voters and citizens beyond Commonwealth’s walls. Zoe Beatty ’05 advised students to “always be yourself” as she shared how she parlayed her childhood obsession with rocks into a career in jewelry design (turn to page 24 to learn more). Engineer and former Commonwealth physics teacher Chris Barsi and environmental scientist Deborah Rudnick ’90 offered perspectives on life in STEM and in their respective niches of technological development and ecological research. Emerson Prison Initiative founder Mneesha Gellman and pianist Sooyun Coco Kim provided countervailing views from working in social advocacy and art. Through it all, Rabbi Carl Perkins’s questions drawn from the Biblical story of Jonah grounded us: “How good are we at recognizing the fundamental uncertainties of life? Do we acknowledge them, or seek to deny them?”

Did you know that any number divisible by nine can be rearranged and still be divisible by nine? Or that the sum of the digits of any multiple of nine will always be divisible by nine? With so much mathematical mystique in this digit, we were particularly delighted when Commonwealth was ranked the #9 Best Private High School in America by Niche.com. Being named the #3 Best Private High School in Massachusetts— three being the square root of nine—also appealed to our poetically nerdy sensibilities.

Joining the top ten Best Private High Schools in America represents a notable jump for Commonwealth, too, having been #24 last year. Other Commonwealth highlights from Niche’s 2022 private school rankings include:

#9 Best Private High School in America

#12 Best College Prep Private High School in America

#2 Best High School for STEM in MA

#3 Best Private High School in MA

#8 Most Diverse Private High School in the Boston Area

The Hobbit: An Unexpected (Crafting) Journey

Sophia Seitz-Shewmon ’24 firmly believes that director Peter Jackson’s 2012 film The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey is “the best movie of all time.” So she embarked on a two-year quest worthy of Tolkien’s characters: to render the entire film in stop-motion animation with handmade figurines. She recently appeared in Young MENSA Magazine to share all the details of her work, from building a functional mailbox outside Bilbo Baggins’s hobbit hole to constructing a meticulous chainmail vest for dwarf warrior Thorin Oakenshield (whose figure “from start to finish,” Sophia says, “took seven months to complete’’).

#1 Best High School for STEM in Suffolk County

#3

Most Diverse Private High School in Suffolk County

A Strong Start to the Debate Season

Commonwealth’s Debate Team began their year at the Stoneleigh-Burnham School Public Speaking Tournament in September, where Henry Levenson ’24 took second place in Persuasive Speaking and third place in Impromptu Speaking. Congratulations, Henry!

Daniel Martin ’23, Ben Wang ’23, Jason Li ’23, Amith Saligrama ’24, and Will Du ’23 pose with their portraits of former physics teacher and assembly speaker Chris Barsi, center

CONVERSATIONS WITH THE HEAD

Jennifer Borman ’81 and Rebecca Jackman don’t do small talk. From the moment they sit across from each other, they instantaneously pick up threads of ongoing discussions. There are faculty-staff meeting topics to review, upcoming events to coordinate, the re-accreditation process to plan—though one might assume, watching from a distance, that they were simply catching up rather than discussing the less scintillating aspects of running a school. “It’s a great partnership,” Jennifer says. “It is fun, it is generative, it is full of mutual respect and really good communication.”

Hired as a chemistry teacher in 2001, Rebecca, known by many as simply “RJJ,” became Assistant Head of School in 2017 to provide the kind of nuts-and-bolts oversight of Commonwealth’s academic program that allows Jennifer, like Bill Wharton before her, to focus on the (vast) big-picture planning inherent to being Head of School. Together, Jennifer and Rebecca tackle the micro and macro of school operations, with an ear to the ground and an eye on the future.

What falls under the purview of the Assistant Head of School, exactly, and what is your working relationship like?

RJJ: One of the themes over my time at Commonwealth is how we’ve grown and professionalized. We’re still scrappy, but the Assistant Head of School role was established because it was becoming clear that the headmaster doing all of the administrative work was increasingly untenable, even in a small school like ours. My job focuses on the day-to-day of the student and faculty experience. I make sure classes are happening as planned and the arc of the academic program makes sense; that it’s a challenging, engrossing educational experience; that students and teachers are supported and have what they need to thrive; and that parents know that they’re sending their children to a place where they will get a wonderful education. Those are the domains that I’m always thinking about.

JB: You and I have had several wonderfully unresolved conversations about what’s yours, what’s mine, and what’s ours. Budgets, fundraising, facilities, and trustees’ work are mine. You have a meaningful role in the oversight of the quality of the academic program and student experience, which is what matters most in high school. Almost everything each of us does is connected; still, I think you have a huge portfolio of incredibly central work.

RJJ: Thank you! You do a better job of articulating the big picture—which is part of your role, not mine!

Rebecca Jackman Assistant Head of School

You both still find time to teach; how does stepping in front of the classroom feel at this point in your careers, and how does your teaching practice influence your work as school leaders?

RJJ: At five years old, I knew I wanted to be a teacher. Getting to go into the classroom every day and connect with my students and uncover the world of chemistry for them never gets old. When other aspects of my job are trying, being present with students for forty minutes in a classroom is really energizing and reminds me why it’s all worth doing. We were just talking [in Chemistry 2] about kinetics and how to figure out the change in the concentration of reactants over time. Suddenly, the students had this moment of, “Oh, maybe we need some calculus for this,” realizing there’s a direct connection and application of something they’re studying across disciplines—that’s just fun to see! And the counsel Jennifer has given me about thinking of faculty meeting discussions much like a classroom discussion has been really helpful.

JB: For me, teaching is definitely fun, but I also find it just makes me a smarter leader in the sense that I have regular insight into our students—how sophisticated they are in their thinking as well as what their blind spots are, what their strengths are, what their habits of mind are. Any decision I might make is going to be much more informed given the fact that I’m not just having incidental contact with students.

Teaching changes our relationship to our colleagues in a good way, too. The shared experience—the fact that we are all grading papers, taking attendance, having exhilarating and sometimes deflating days in the classroom—creates a different kind of faculty culture, I think.

RJJ: It helps foster mutual understanding and respect. And, for me, the student advis-

ing piece matters as much as the teaching. Through my advisees, I have a lens into what it feels like to be a tenth grader or an eleventh grader, as well as a window into the impressive work my colleagues do every day and how they create exciting classroom experiences for students.

How do you balance the day-to-day running of our academic program and long-term planning?

RJJ: I love the cyclical nature of schools. You get to go back into the classroom every day, and if you didn’t do a great job the day before, you have the chance to do a great job today. You keep growing and learning, both on a small scale every week and on a larger scale every year. But it can also feel hard to find a moment in that cycle when it feels as if there’s time to introduce a change. You can’t just say, “We’re going to pause the day-to-day operations of educating a child and focus on this long-term project we want to do.” The key, I think, is identifying just one or two longer-term priorities to work on in a given school year— more than that and you don’t make progress on any of them—and identifying a series of smaller steps that are manageable, while also running a school, but that will move you in the direction of change.

JB: One of the many things I like about working with Rebecca is that she’s not complacent about anything. She loves Commonwealth and esteems the institution, but she’s not just interested in maintaining the status quo. She’s constantly asking: what could be even better? But there’s no change by fiat here. We are deeply collaborative with faculty and staff, and we’re thinking about both our priorities for making Commonwealth even stronger and our colleagues’ priorities for improving their individual classrooms. How do we lead from the top down and the bottom up?

RJJ: The notion of shared stewardship very aptly describes the sort of investment that all of our colleagues feel in Commonwealth. There’s a desire to make sure that everything we do improves the place—and an appreciation for how complex the system is and the breadth of potential consequences. If you change one thing over here, how will it shift things over there? If we’re going to perturb the system, we’re going to be deeply intentional about it.

How do you provide cohesive leadership for all academic disciplines, and what does the arc of working with faculty over the school year look like?

JB: Commonwealth has had a long and vibrant history of faculty autonomy, and that autonomy has bred creativity, passion, and these amazing courses that grow out of deep scholarly interest and expert teaching honed over the years. However, when there are shared agreements on things like DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) priorities, grading, and student attendance expectations, we make much more progress than we would having people do it their own way. Rebecca and I are in constant conversation about those shared agreements as well as how individuals and departments function here and the kind of support they need. You see many of the fruits of those discussions in our weekly faculty-staff meetings: every time we have a change in mind, whether fairly minor or somewhat less minor, we vet it with our colleagues, and we expect to hear a wide variety of opinions. Then we make use of those opinions and circle back and say, “Here’s the next step.”

RJJ: A good example of that process in action is our new ninth-grade seminar. We took a step back to think about what used to be three distinct ninth-grade classes as this holistic, yearlong course designed to introduce new students to all of the different aspects of the Common-

“ The notion of shared stewardship very aptly describes the sort of investment that all of our colleagues feel in Commonwealth. There’s a desire to make sure that everything we do improves the place—and an appreciation for how complex the system is and the breadth of potential consequences. If you change one thing over here, how will it shift things over there?”

wealth experience within the building, within the city of Boston, even within themselves. We started planning last year, we brainstormed with faculty and staff at our final meeting of the year, then we had really fruitful conversations over the summer involving a whole series of people from different departments, and we’ve been sharing progress with the whole faculty and staff as we go along.

You both have deep roots at Commonwealth—Jennifer as an alumna and Rebecca as a teacher for the past twenty-two years. What’s changed since you first came here, and what are the throughlines?

RJJ: When I first started at Commonwealth, the focus really was on being this very intensely academic place. In our individual ways as advisors, we would work to help move students from fledgling young adolescents to fully fledged college students and adults in the world. We’re still intensely academic, but attending to students’ holistic needs has become more of a focus for us as the world has changed.

One thing that’s remained constant is my incredible set of colleagues, even if many of the characters change over time. When I think about why I took the job at Commonwealth in the first place, I remember having my interview with (then-Headmaster) Bill Wharton and a group of faculty—it felt like the sort of interesting conversation I had in grad school except not everyone was a chemist! That was very exciting. They were all passionate about what they taught but united by their interest in being a part of this community and working with adolescents.

I think, fundamentally, the students have not changed either. They still arrive as fourteenyear-olds just taking the subway for the first time, and they mature into sophisticated young adults. How they develop over that time is pretty incredible to see, and the trust they have in the adults in the building, seeing us as partners in that process of becoming independent, is unchanged, too.

What has changed is me. When I started at Commonwealth, I had just finished my postdoc, and I was closer in age to the kids. Now I’m older than many of their parents, and I’m a parent myself. I have gone through so many different life stages that my relationship to the students and how they see me has shifted. That’s just interesting to absorb.

JB: There is much that is recognizable and beautiful from when I was here as a student: the intellectual spark, the love of learning, the

sense of community, the quality of the mentoring. Then there’s lots that feels different, because I do think the school has changed in some of the ways you mentioned, Rebecca, and all to the good. I do spend time wondering about what parts of adolescence are relatively classic—the search for identity, for example— and what feels different about being a teenager in the twenty-first century. I feel like it is always worth revisiting how we’re preparing our students for the here-and-now as well as life after graduation. How are we speaking to the needs of the future?

We’ve been reflecting on Eric Davis’s legacy at Commonwealth (turn to page 4) and the impact of extraordinary teachers. How do you identify someone like that in the hiring process? Can you capture lightning in a bottle?

RJJ: I can think of so many people who have come to Commonwealth who were superb in their field and superb as teachers; some of them have stayed and continued to teach, and others have been pulled back to academia or elsewhere. You can’t predict it, or at least, I can’t predict it. I mean, when I arrived I thought I would stay for five years!

JB: I do think there really is an impressive amount of professional longevity here. I think the healthiest schools have a cohort of people with a long-term commitment—but some turnover is wonderful, too. You want to have teachers in their twenties and thirties and forties and so on, because it provides a much richer experience for our students. And you and I and our colleagues are prioritizing a very intentional effort to recruit for diversity in many dimensions. Diversity of age, level of experience, disciplinary background, and also identity has been a real focus of our work.

How do you think about the impact of the pandemic on today’s students?

JB: I feel like we are collectively—not just in this building, but all over the world—trying to take stock. I don’t think any of us knows the full impact, but, at least at Commonwealth, the observing, listening, assessing, and comparing feels very active and fruitful here.

RJJ: We’re especially attuned to our students who spent their middle-school years in the height of COVID. A particular kind of loss happened there. So much of that time is spent making social connections and learning general executive function skills—how to manage your time, how to keep track of assignments, how to study. Part of our rationale for reenvisioning our ninth-grade seminar was to help meet those students where they are.

JB: The interruptions and discontinuities of students’ pandemic education are showing up in the classroom now. There are real struggles—and real grief—to attend to from the pandemic. Let’s figure out how to serve those needs, and then let’s think about what we might harvest from the experience. I never want to think about the pandemic as only losses or only deficits; it may breed long-term resilience or adaptability or appreciation and gratitude or an additional dose of Carpe Diem that may serve students in helpful ways. I feel like we just don’t know yet.

RJJ: One of the things I’ve really valued about you as a leader, Jennifer, is your deep respect for the institution but also your willingness to ask us to think about why we do something the way we do it. Maybe there are really good reasons; maybe we should consider doing things another way. But that thoughtful questioning is what allows us to grow. t

One Economy, Many Lives

BY LILLIEN WALLER

Even if you’re not a trained economist, you probably have a sense of how regional, national, and global policies and trends can impact your local economy and personal finances. Shifts in the federal interest rate, for instance, might change how you think about buying a car or house. Or, say, a global pandemic disrupts supply chains and drives up the cost of your groceries. But when it comes to how each of us lives within, and perceives, the broader economy, we tend to overlook what we don’t fully understand and, more importantly, can’t see. This is as true for individuals as it is for economic policymakers across the globe trying to factor a mind-boggling number of variables into their decisions—including taking a closer look at unpaid labor and the needs of communities historically overlooked by these policies.

Invisible Economics

“Have you seen those puzzles that are a triangle with a number of other triangles inscribed into them? The instructions read ‘How many triangles can you find in this image?’ And there are many triangles and groups of triangles together. ‘Is there one economy?’ is like ‘Is there one triangle?’ Rather, there are seven billion individual economies in a world where I exist and make my choices based on the situations that I encounter. And each individual person does the same,” says economist Joshua Nadel ’11 , who recently joined the Seattle Housing Authority as a budget analyst and formerly worked as a project manager of economic research and analysis for the New York City Economic Development Corporation.

Joshua explains that we can extrapolate from this individual experience to neighborhood and collective community experiences. “You can build those all the way up until you have one larger, broad economy,” he says. “I think the issue is not whether there are multiple economies but, rather, that there are fundamentally different ways that people interact with the economy, and the economy can do fundamentally different things for different people. And that is not necessarily to say that there are different economies for different people. More precisely, the problem is that there is only one economy for a very diverse set of people.”

Economic policy that treats diverse circumstances as the same also excludes and ignores a broad swath of the work people do, especially the unpaid care and volunteer work done primarily by women. Women—in the United States, globally, and particularly within developing countries—perform dozens of hours per week of unpaid housekeeping, childcare, eldercare, and community volunteer work. A woman’s paid work might hover around thirty-five hours per week, while her unpaid work might amount to another thirty, forty, or even fifty hours per week.

“If you don’t count that [unpaid work],” says economist Thalia Kidder ’77, who, up until September 2021, led Oxfam’s Women’s Economic Empowerment practice group, “you get a very male bias and white middle-class bias on what is really going on in terms of the economy.” Economic policy aims to shape the production and distribution of goods and services; however, it typically only considers those that are monetized and paid. Globally, women and girls perform seventy-five percent of unpaid care work. In some developing countries in Africa, South Asia, and Latin America, informal paid work and unpaid work can account for between fifty and ninety percent of a country’s economy.

“Politicians and economic policymakers are basing what they do on monetized, formal work. But they’re just getting this tiny aspect of the economy right,” Thalia says. “It’s biased against poor people, women, and ethnic minorities, wherever you are in the world.”

Advocating from Within

describes his previous position with the New York City Economic Development Corporation (NYCEDC) as being part of a small think tank within a larger public development agency whose broad mission is to “create good jobs and build strong neighborhoods.” As an analyst and project manager, Joshua’s goal was to figure out how to do that without raising property or income taxes in a city with the country’s highest cost of living, which meant looking at New York’s budget.

“My job was twofold: one was to look at larger economic trends and see how that was going to impact New Yorkers and New York generally. So that included looking at national policies, especially in labor market areas, and trying to understand how they impact people in their day-to-day lives.”

The other projects Joshua managed at NYCEDC were concerned with determining incentives for businesses and developers to bring their ventures—and potential jobs—to New York City. In 2018, when Amazon was scouting locations for its second headquarters, he was tasked with estimating the tax revenue benefits that New York should expect from attracting Amazon (and other corporations), in order to limit the potential incentives or abatements that the city could make yet still make it possible for the corporate behemoth to provide upwards of 25,000 new jobs.

But it was his work on bringing grocery services to food deserts around the city that Joshua found not only the most urgent but the most meaningful. In addition to the money acquired from sales taxes, incentivizing grocery stores where they are desperately needed ultimately helps to relieve a number of quality-of-life issues, including increasing health benefits to residents and decreasing traffic congestion. “We know what good, meaningful policies are, and it is often hard to pass those without a technical economic lens. I wish it weren’t that way, but I also recognize that, if I have the ability to advocate for something like groceries in food deserts from an economic standpoint, then it’s just another pathway for pushing something through, albeit by very traditional means.”

Thalia Kidder understands how difficult yet crucial it is to advocate from within institutions. She had been doing this work for Oxfam for more than twenty-four years—supporting women’s organizations around the globe that keep their economies running with little or no recognition from economic policymakers.

“Ten years ago, even progressive international organizations didn’t consider housework an issue, just as a problem to be avoided,” she says, “but there were women’s organizations and social enterprises ready to try something new.”

Thalia began her career at Oxfam in 1997 in Managua, Nicaragua. It was there, as an economic advisor, that she started seeing how local development projects ignored most of women’s work and economic contributions because they were unpaid. It was a long journey to get people, from colleagues to policymakers, to understand that unpaid care work is about social justice as well as economics.

“There was a lot of investment into women’s enterprises [such as] producing and processing cashews and coffee and spices. Project managers would encourage women: ‘Why don’t you be head of the cooperative? Why don’t you do the marketing or the finance?’ Women would take on leadership positions but then they would drop out. Why? Because they were expected to do forty or fifty hours of unpaid care and domestic work” in addition to building and running their own businesses.

Digging deeper into the issue via focus groups was enlightening. Thalia and her team coordinated discussions for both women and men to make visible all of their work and their time spent doing it. The groups considered farm work, paid work, childcare, eldercare, and housework as well as volunteer campaigns and other community activities. In all cases, even in different countries, men assumed that they worked more than women, at forty to fifty hours per week, but when unpaid care work was included, women, in fact, were working significantly longer hours than men—upwards of eighty hours each week.

Illustrations: Martina Ardisson

Unpaid care work is a particularly insidious form of gender inequality, with wide-ranging consequences. It often prevents women from pursuing education and better-paying work, taking part in civic life and leisure activities, attending to their health and well-being, and breaking out of the cycle of poverty. The myth, however, is that nothing can be done about it.

In 2013, Thalia and her colleagues developed Oxfam’s Women’s Economic Empowerment and Care initiative (WE-Care), which has since been implemented in more than twenty-five countries. WE-Care works with partners in development, local governments, civic organizations, and the private sector to increase public awareness around unpaid care work. Often this leads to more investment in water, laundry, and energy systems to reduce the time required for housework. The initiative also involves male politicians, religious leaders, and celebrities who engage men and boys to shift social norms that discourage men from participating in unpaid care work and hold women solely responsible for it. The initiative works toward gender equality by “recognizing, reducing, and redistributing unpaid care and domestic work,” and its activities seek to move the needle toward understanding unpaid care work as an urgent economic and social justice issue.

For decades, NGOs have prioritized initiatives aimed at improving outcomes for women and girls, from addressing domestic violence to ensuring access to education; for much of that time, the notion of “housework” was a non-issue. The conversation has changed in the last fifteen years, Thalia says, and her work has sought to shift the broader narrative around unpaid care work and emphasize that women’s time is, among other things, an economic quantity, particularly though not exclusively in developing countries.

Thalia’s early focus-group approach was also a precursor to WE-Care’s Household Care Survey (HCS), which measures all aspects of unpaid care conducted by women, men, and children, including time spent. The survey is context-specific and can serve as baseline research for policymakers, development workers, and educators.

“The work we’re talking about can be arduous, difficult, and stressful. And it’s significant, valuable work for well-being and a healthy society…It shouldn’t be just women’s responsibility,” Thalia says. “It’s not a personal choice issue; it’s about economic policy and justice. Women getting out of poverty is just not going to happen if you have no laundry facility or, worse, you carry water for three hours a day or cook over an open fire. And that’s even before you take care of the kids and grandparents.

“The northern industrialized countries’ view of women’s economic advancement has been biased towards money, rather than

looking at time. And it is also true for working-class women in the United States and in the United Kingdom. How many women do you know who haven’t tried to advance in their lives and careers because they don’t have the time?”

A Matter of Perception

Concerns about the economy loom large in our collective consciousness. Americans worry about how far their wages will go— for a mortgage or gas or groceries—or whether they can improve on the financial circumstances achieved by their parents. But when asked how they feel they are doing financially, many draw a distinction between the broader economy “out there” and their own personal circumstance. As Joshua Nadel notes, “Often our perceptions of what is happening in the world and what matters are based on what we can see. And the things that direct us in our immediate neighborhoods are hyper-localized effects. But there is also this idea that, outside of my immediate circle, things are much worse or harder than I am actually finding them to be.” This doesn’t prevent the average American from feeling the sting of rising inflation since the pandemic. But here’s what a lot of Americans may not realize: when interest rates are low, and inflation is low, it’s easier to borrow and spend money and there is significantly more venture capital flowing through the economy that subsidizes a whole host of daily goods.

“Think back about seven, eight years ago when a Netflix account cost $6 and Ubers felt as if they cost practically nothing,” Joshua says. “Everything seemed as if it was too good to be true. Now, Ubers are much more expensive and Netflix is much more expensive. That is because the amount of money that was wildly flowing through the economy was the result of interest rates being so low. Interest rates rising has dried up that spigot. Venture capital had subsidized a very comfortable lifestyle in many ways.”

So our perception of what consumer goods cost is skewed by money flowing through the economy that we might not even realize is there. We think certain goods, like a Netflix account, shouldn’t cost that much, largely unaware of the billion-dollar companies backing them. But without that additional capital flowing through the economy, the goods would cost a lot more. And, Joshua speculates, maybe some of them should.

“What really is the difference between a four percent and a two percent and a nine percent unemployment rate if you have kept your job? Hundreds of thousands of people have lost their jobs and lost their means of survival”—quite literally, Josh notes. There’s evidence that unemployment drives up mortality rates, given its stressfullness combined with the loss of employer-provided health insurance. “Some of those things you might not feel individually, but they have a really strong impact.”

Proof That Change Is Possible

If there’s one thing that Oxfam’s WE-Care initiative shows, it’s that how we perceive unpaid and informal paid work is crucial, and Thalia Kidder has dedicated her career to making this typically overlooked share of the economy visible to international development workers, communities (particularly men and boys), governments, and economic policymakers around the world.

Even as WE-Care works to change thinking around housework, for example, as a social-justice issue, that thinking has to move up to strategy and policy. “Don’t just talk about the problem; talk about solutions. Talk about the fact that patterns of unpaid care work can change and change fast if employers invest, if the government invests, and if social norms and narratives change in families, in schools, etc.,” Thalia says.

Of course, there’s no silver bullet for solving problematically long hours of unpaid care work for women. It is not, Thalia explains, just a matter of getting more household equipment like stoves and washing machines into women’s hands, providing more government services and infrastructure, and addressing cultural norms and beliefs to recognize domestic labor as shared work, highly skilled, and significant. Real change requires all of the above.

“The local researchers did rigorous quantitative studies,” Thalia says, interviewing 300 Zimbabwean couples involved in WE-Care and interviewing them again eighteen months later. The analysis showed, on average, that men were doing more care work and the women were doing less and the attitudes had changed. When families have household equipment and more government services and really work on changing the norms, it doesn’t take a generation (or longer) for change to take root. After eighteen months of these focused efforts, women recouped forty-five to seventy minutes a day. An extra hour is a lot—certainly for anyone raising kids, but the time savings transcend parenthood. “This is not just a gender issue. It’s a race issue. It’s a class issue. It’s an immigrant issue,” Thalia notes. “Studies have shown that the services that facilitate unpaid care and domestic work are much worse if you are in a Black area, a poor area, or in immigrant communities.”

In February of 2021, Oxfam performed a “listening exercise” with nonprofit leaders from Africa, Asia, the Middle East, the Americas, and the United Kingdom. Participants emphasized how even before the pandemic, undervaluing women’s work had negative consequences. Since the pandemic, many economic policy decisions have reinforced the bias toward formal, paid, and “productive” work, Thalia says. Migrants, ethnic, and racialized minority women and men moved into precarious employment in undervalued types of work. In the United States, immigrants are still often relegated to cash-based, informal jobs, and those who don’t have a Social Security number may not be factored into economic policies, she adds.

“In economic crisis, what happens is that the cost of providing care gets shifted from the government to families and women, especially poor, immigrant, and Black women. It’s no surprise that inequality is increasing along all of these biases,” Thalia explains. “Because how care is provided in any society is a combination of the government, employers, nonprofits, families, trade unions, and anybody in civil society that provides services. If one or more places cuts care services or employees’ benefits, the need and the care work don’t go away. The costs of caring get shifted back onto unpaid careers.

“This is a poverty and social justice issue. It’s not just about whether we think women should be in the kitchen or not.” t

Lillien Waller is a poet, essayist, and editor. Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best New Poets, and she is editor of the anthology American Ghost: Poets on Life after Industry (Stockport Flats). Lillien is a Cave Canem Fellow and a Kresge Artist Fellow in the Literary Arts. She lives in Detroit.

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The northern industrialized countries’ view of women’s economic advancement has been biased towards money, rather than looking at time. And it is also true for working-class women in the United States and in the United Kingdom. How many women do you know who haven’t tried to advance in their lives and careers because they don’t have the time?”

Didn’t Know It Was a Job” A Life With Images Words&

BY CATHERINE BREWSTER

Couldn’t you have picked one that would make you employable?” Coralie Kraft ’09 remembers her parents asking when she settled on her double major—English and art history—at Bard College. She hastens to add that they went on: “You’re an industrious person. You’ll make it work.”

Cut to 2020: Cora’s story “How Dev Hynes Went From Being in ‘We Are Who We Are’ to Scoring It,” about the artist also known as Blood Orange and his role in Luca Guadagnino’s new series, ran on the front page of the Sunday Arts section of The New York Times. She had a day job as a photo editor at The New Yorker and was steadily amassing freelance writing gigs. More than paying the rent, she’s becoming an authoritative voice on the vast array of culture she hungrily consumes. Her story is a joyful one for humanities junkies, including me (a fan of Cora since she was my student in ninth grade), and for their parents.

At Commonwealth, the visual arts were the center of Cora’s experience. Since then, she says she’s learned that she can’t do without either art or writing: “Every time I’ve tried to focus just on one, I’ve missed the other.” So after college, even while she was making ends meet with a retail job at a jeweler on Newbury Street, she was going to openings and running into people who made and wrote about art. One day she met a WBUR editor with a blog and “somehow conned him into letting [her] write a book review,” which led to theatre reviews and finally her Commonwealth classmate Alex Strecker ’09 asking her if she’d like to work for LensCulture (a bastion for contemporary photography artists and enthusiasts). That became a full-time job helping photographers with artists’ statements, visiting studios, and producing exhibits in the U.S. and Europe, as well as running the Instagram account Alex had started.

She kept writing—most consequentially, about the photograph that accompanied the 2017 short story “Cat Person” in The New Yorker. Like the story itself, the photo could be read as suggesting either consensual intimacy or assault. With the #MeToo movement in

full flower, Cora was fascinated by her friends’ visceral and divergent reactions: “That’s what made it a great photograph,” she remembers. She interviewed the photographer, Elinor Carucci, unpacking for readers the arduous creative process that led to the image—the photo editor’s and the photographer’s understanding of the story, the tricky logistical and ethical dimensions of working with the models on the shoot. To her shock, Cora got an email that week from her future boss at The New Yorker , a stranger who’d deduced from Cora’s thoughts and questions about Carucci’s photograph that she’d make a great photo editor. Six months later, she moved to New York to do just that. “I didn’t know it was a job,” she says of photo editing.

If this sounds like the kind of story—hustle and virtue rewarded—that English majors and moviegoers alike recognize, it goes on. “I learned so much just by watching,” Cora says: photo editors participate in envisioning, and then commissioning, the art that will accompany a story. They often see the texts of stories before they’re shaped by the editors themselves, who tackle drafts “truly like a Commonwealth teacher,” responding to raw material with questions like “Is this really what you want to say? Figure out what you mean by it and whether you do mean it.” Cora, who was producing a steady stream of articles for the “Photo Booth” feature on newyorker.com, says she was lucky to have had Alex Strecker’s encouragement at LensCulture: “He was instrumental in my believing that I was a good writer and a good editor.” As she continued to generate her own stories, including “cold pitching” the Dev Hynes profile to the Times, it gradually became feasible to make a living freelancing.

That’s what she did for much of the pandemic, shuttling between New York and Boston, until another offer she couldn’t refuse came along from The New York Times Magazine last spring. Now she works as a photo editor for the magazine and continues to write for both the Times and The New Yorker, as well as other publications, like Aperture

At The New Yorker, her work included coordinating photo shoots in war zones. She wrote about

“I

photographers who took pictures of the plants grown by the residents of refugee camps and of life in Arctic Alaska during winter. Since then, she’s become someone who writes mostly, she says, “about culture”: profiles of all kinds of artists, many of them in the world of TV. They’ve recently included Lisa Hanawalt (creator of BoJack Horseman and Tuca and Bertie), Rose Matafeo (Starstruck), and Kaitlyn Dever (Dopesick).

When Cora talks about needing “a regular diet” of all kinds of art to thrive, she’s being inclusive. I remember her having to take a breath and hold back tears when she described seeing works like the Nike of Samothrace in the Louvre on a Commonwealth trip to France. But she’s just as passionate about rejecting snobbery about “trash TV”: as she says, if she knows a lot of thoughtful people who’ve watched every episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, it follows that there’s something there worth thinking about. The only shows she really doesn’t have time for, she says, are the ones that “assume stupid viewers who only want familiarity and comfort,” missing opportunities to generate strong reactions. Another way she recently put it, on Twitter, was “I love it when television pisses me off.”

One of the photographers Cora interviewed for LensCulture was Bruce Polin, who roamed Prospect Park in Brooklyn with a mechanical large-format camera, asking strangers if they wanted to be part of the portrait series he called “Deep Park.” His subjects are New Yorkers, every kind of person, and a lot about Polin and his work reminds me of Cora, with her gift for connecting with people, her rich curiosity about their surfaces and depths.

“I think there’s a connection between my affection for photography and interviewing,” Cora notes. “I really like to understand the motivations and emotions behind someone’s actions, and there’s a lot you can learn about those things from either a photograph or an interview. So in that way it makes sense that I’ve created a life for myself where those two elements are central to my day-to-day.” t

Catherine Brewster is an English teacher and twentythree-year veteran of Commonwealth School.

BY CLAIRE JEANTHEAU

C r a f t i n g i n C o m m u n i t y

When you imagine a craftsperson, what do you see? Perhaps a lone figure, hunched over their work, diligently tinkering with metal, fabric, paper, wool, or wood, plying their trade into the wee hours? While some solitude is important for the following student and alumnae artisans, their work in costuming, jewelry, processions, and fiber arts is inseparable from others’. Some collaborate with their friends and neighbors to stage performances or knit sweaters; others source inspiration from the ancestors and creators who preceded them. The forces outside their studios are often as influential as the tools and materials inside.

The Renaissance Woman

It’s a slow period for Alena Gomberg ’20: She’s collaborating with the production group Krymov Lab NYC to design the wardrobe for a run of theatrical performances based on classic literature. And contributing stop-motion animation to a film about the storied Mars Bar in the East Village, which hosted (and, on occasion, was smashed up by) early punk acts like the Ramones. And creating costumes inspired by Slavic folklore for an act she’s pitching to summer festivals. Did she mention the outfits she made from recyclables for her friends’ performance piece, which unites “Tuvan throat singing with dub and electronic music”?

Alena (who also goes by Luna Gomberg in the world of art) used to introduce herself as an all-around “artist.” That soon stopped,

though, when she realized others assumed she was a painter. “I don’t love painting. I don’t even really like drawing!” she insists. While no one title could cover the breadth of her interests, her new preference, “costume designer,” captures her drive to work across a multiplicity of physical media. “It’s very important for me to work with textiles and just tangible things in general,” Alena says. “I feel like I perceive the world through touch rather than visually or through auditory sensation.”

Textiles may be her primary means of perception, but Alena has always been a creative polymath. When not soaking up painting and printmaking at Commonwealth, she took every theater role, on stage and off—set design, costuming, even editing a translation of Evgeny Schwartz’s The Dragon from Russian—all the while drawing

inspiration from literature and Latin classes. (The mentorship of humanities teacher Don Conolly, who discussed War and Peace with her on a day visit, was a key “reason [she] ended up at Commonwealth in the first place.”) Soon after beginning art school, she found the norms of contemporary art could no longer contain her expanding worldview and left to pursue her own path. “I don’t have much of an interest in the fine art world,” she says, “mostly because I want to work with bodies—that’s why I want to work with costumes. I think it is fascinating to work with human anatomy and in dialogue with the body.”

Staring down what she calls “the beginning of a very, very long path” of a career as an independent costume designer, Alena’s versatility has served her well as she works with a variety of collaborators and repurposes unlikely materials. “You can definitely make art out of trash. It can be terrific!” There’s a constant push and pull for Alena, though, between the demands of necessity and the desire to place herself in a greater crafting tradition—the difference, she says, “between giving materials a meaning of your own and using materials with a given meaning and building on historical thinking.”

For Alena, that historical thinking emerges in her connection to textiles, a medium with traditionally feminine associations, as a woman, as well as her Slavic heritage. Her folkloric costumes in progress, of mythological figures like mermaids and the sirin (a bird that accompanies fallen soldiers’ souls in a role Alena likens to an “angel of death”), are a means of processing the war in Ukraine as an artist with both Russian and Ukrainian family. Alena’s attitude towards audience reception is just as broad as the range of textiles and influences she works with. “It is great if my art starts a conversation or a thought process for someone,” she says. “There are many possibilities. And I would not be offended at any one of them.”

The Jeweler

Many children string beads together and make necklaces and friendship bracelets. Not as many, like Zoe Beatty ’05 did as a child, also haul around books about the minerals behind the beads everywhere they go. Growing up with a family of artists and musicians, Zoe’s early love for jewelry, and the natural resources used to produce it, knew no bounds. “People would say, ‘How was your vacation?’” whenever her family returned from a trip, she remembers, “and I’d say, ‘Oh, it was really cool…look at all the rocks I found!’”

Her childhood enthusiasm led her to classes in copper- and bronze-working at Shady Hill School in Cambridge, and then, at age twelve, to the inaugural silversmithing workshop—an opportunity typically reserved for adults—at Boston’s North Bennet Street School. As a Commonwealth student in the early 2000s, she loved hanging around our studios for classes like ceramics and photography. Later on, those experiences would steer her back towards North Bennet, where she would earn jewelry certification and begin pursuing a career in the craft.

Today, Zoe is the entrepreneur behind jewelry imprint MAKAZOE, successfully transitioning to sole proprietorship after working at

jewelers like E.B. Horn, one of the oldest American companies in the industry. Her time at North Bennet, where she would spend hours in small classes practicing one design or technique to perfection, provided her technical foundation. After finding joy in freeform jewelry-making workshops, though, she’s not afraid to experiment. “I think it’s cool to break the rules—I like to know the rules so I can break them even better,” Zoe quips. And that includes an unwritten rule of the trade: that jewelry is strictly the provenance of luxury designers.

Others’ first associations with jewelry, Zoe has noticed, are high-end brands and diamonds. Those are images she strives to avoid as she plays with the limits of form, working with sustainable gold, silver, and far less conventional materials, like a fish skeleton that she found on the beach at Wellfleet. (Its delicate bones ultimately became molds for a series of intricate, prickly pieces, such as earrings cast in sterling silver, then oxidized; see image #8 above.) For Zoe, the most compelling aspect of jewelry isn’t its prestige but the people who make it—and the ways they make it their own.

It’s “craftspeople, historically, who pioneered all the techniques that we’re still trying to figure out with modern science,” Zoe says. Unfortunately, she notes, “most artisans didn’t keep records and were never named”—so she’s dedicated to staying in touch with the ones working in the present. She previously served on the board of the Boston Women’s Jewelry Association, and she loves hearing from jewelers who aim for higher ethical standards, like the use of recycled materials, within the industry. There’s just something special, she thinks, about “the community that you can find, and connecting with people that share the same values.”

The Leader of the Processional

A row of paper lanterns covered with poetry that passersby are invited to take. A walking tableau of costumed people showing the development of Manhattan’s West Side, from its time as a hub for longshoremen to its vibrant LGBTQ+ disco scene in the 1970s. A procession in Hudson, New York, led by the city’s youth that winds through a different neighborhood each year.

“People have a preconception of what a parade is,” says Sophia Michahelles ’93. They picture it as “a presentation of something to other people, usually on the sidewalk or sideline.” But, if the performances above—all co-organized by Sophia—are any indication, she doesn’t deal in the linear route followed by annual events, like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, in her home state of New York. Instead, her specialty is an eclectic, collaborative craft form she calls the “processional arts.”

Sophia sees her role as the co-founder of Processional Arts Workshop (PAW) as creating “carnivalesque performances in public space, in collaboration with local communities.” No two places yield the same sort of procession—they might draw the whole neighborhood or just a few participants, coincide with a special occasion or have a spur-of-the-moment feel. “What is this ritual form of procession—some kind of celebration with a group of people moving through space?” Sophia always asks herself when designing. “And what story do those people or does that place tell?”

Each procession presents plenty of opportunities for material craftship, as volunteers make life-sized puppets or elaborate costumes. Unlocking that story Sophia speaks of alongside a group of collaborators, though, is its own sort of craft. Processional Arts Workshop is typically invited to perform in communities at their members’ request. After conducting research and building trust with local participants, Sophia and co-founder Alex Kahn tease out a theme to explore—which can be partic-

ularly complex when PAW arrives in a gentrifying setting like the West Side. “The community is changing, so we said, ‘Well, we’ll figure out who the community is,’” Sophia recalls from that procession. Neighbors’ varying memories of the area’s history led to costuming needs for both blue longshoremen’s wear and clubbing dress.

Sophia and Alex are pioneers in the processional arts space: “I’m always joking that we don’t really have colleagues,” Sophia says. An unexpected path took her from Commonwealth’s drawing and painting studio to studying architectural history and theater at McGill University, where she carried on her interest in design through set building. She and Alex first worked together in 1998 to design a performance for Greenwich Village’s Halloween festivities; after inviting volunteers to their studio to help as deadlines drew near (and realizing that ”people weren’t just doing it because they felt sorry for us”), they wondered how else the energy of participants could be harnessed in performance art—the starting point for PAW.

Now, when processions end, Sophia hopes participants allow that energy to keep guiding their perceptions after an event is over. “On the day of a procession, you’re encountering space in a different way,” she says. “There is that memory that stays with you, even though it’s an ephemeral performance.”

The Fiber Artist

In Lizzy Wakefield’s telling, her fiber-working skills were handed down to her like a family heirloom. Her mother took up knitting when she was pregnant to make baby clothes for Lizzy; she taught her daughter how to crochet, then knit, when she was six, resulting in an abundance of scarves and hats. But, Lizzy says, it wasn’t until her first knit-along—a long-term group crafting project—that she was fully ready to embrace the gift.

“A knit-along is where a bunch of people knit the same pattern; they all pick different yarn, and you make a timeline so you finish at the same time,” the current Commonwealth junior explains. The finished product, a cardigan (coincidentally, the cardigan she wore while speaking with CM), was “the biggest project [she’d] ever done,” she says. “Everybody ended up finishing after our supposed end date; I finished in about a year.” That didn’t deter her from knitting; if anything, the sense of accomplishment kept her going.

IMAGE GUIDE

Years of knitwear creations have followed: a rainbow skirt for LGBTQ+ pride, hats in every color palette imaginable, countless birthday presents for friends. At Commonwealth, Lizzy can be spotted by her signature “school blanket”: 250 crocheted hexagons and flowers in fifty different colors, born from a pattern lent to her by history teacher Melissa Glenn Haber ’87.

Lizzy’s interests extend beyond the craft of knitting to the origin of the materials in her hands. On the recent trip to Peru with students in Commonwealth’s Spanish classes, she reveled in seeing the pigments produced by native plants and the wool gathered from alpacas. Before that, she visited Shetland Wool Week in Scotland. “There’s classes and there’s knitting and crocheting…It’s just amazing,” she reminisces. “You hang out with sheep, you hang out with little Scottish ladies—and someone there taught me how to do color work, which is when you knit with two colors in the same row.” And it’s easier than ever to exchange inspiration with a worldwide audience. Lizzy often turns to Ravelry, a website where knitters and crocheters can upload free patterns, and hopes one day to post the finished color work designs she created for Project Week in January 2022.

But one doesn’t need to travel far, of course—physically or virtually—for knitting. A highlight of Lizzy’s fall was the Greater Boston Yarn Crawl, where she perused deals and collected stamps in a booklet at local craft stores. Back at Commonwealth, recess announcements wouldn’t be complete without her weekly reminder for the organization affectionately known as Knitting Cult. Lizzy’s main goal for the Cult this year: to mentor others as they take on their own projects. “I really like when people make things and they get really excited,” she says, “because they’ve created something on their own.” t

Claire Jeantheau is the Communications Coordinator at Commonwealth.

1. ALENA GOMBERG

2. Mermaid Costume Sketch

3. Costume for CHINGIS DUB

4. Costume for CHINGIS DUB

5. Doll Sculpture

6. ZOE BEATTY

7. Knot Pendant

8. Fishbone Earrings

9. Engraved Botanical Hoops

10. Tourmaline Ring

11. Snake Ring with Chrysoprase Cabochon

12. SOPHIA MICHAHELLES (Image: Benjamin Thacker)

13. Opening Procession, The High Line at the Rail Yards, New York City, 2014 (Photo: Karen Blumberg)

14. Reverie, New York’s Village Halloween Parade, 2017 (Photo: Alex Kahn)

15. Shine a Light, New York’s Village Halloween Parade, 2015 (Photo: Karl Rabe)

16. Mad Hatters’ Parade, Hudson, New York, 2021 (Photo: Sophia Michahelles)

17. LIZZY WAKEFIELD

18. “The Esteemed School Blanket”

19. Pride Skirt

20. Headband

21. Lockdown Shawl

Mara Dale in her favorite Commonwealth classroom, 2A, with a favorite tome, Milton’s Paradise Lost

Get to know close reading, its resonance at Commonwealth, and its relevance in the real world through one of its champions, English teacher Mara Dale…

Patience, in a word

BY JESSICA TOMER

We often talk about “habits of mind” at Commonwealth—and perhaps no habit more so than close reading. With telling aliases such as “mindful” and “critical” reading, close reading allows you to luxuriate in text in a way quite at odds with the pace of the modern world. You learn to pause, to question, to analyze tone and syntax, to consider context, to examine a single word from many angles. And you are rewarded with insights that often transcend the text.

These habits can be just as helpful in Physics and U.S. History as they are in English classes. But apply them outside the classroom, and suddenly the world’s near-constant onslaught of information—much of it engineered to capture our attention in the most superficial ways—loses some of its usually unchecked influence.

“Close reading applies to everything, as far as I’m concerned. It makes you more alive as a human being. And it’s not confined to words,” says Mara Dale, veteran English teacher and Commonwealth’s Dean of Faculty Hiring and Support. Since coming to Commonwealth in 2005, she has trained her students to closely read everything from Maxine Hong Kingston’s novel The Woman Warrior to Thomas Cole’s painting The Oxbow to ads on the T.

“I stand by this,” Mara says. “Careful noticing is a habit, and I think it’s a habit of value.” And the more closely you look, the more you see.

Closely reading religious texts, from the Hindu Vedas to the Jewish Torah, has been around for practically as long as those words have been committed to parchment, but the literary practice as we know it in Western classrooms is typically traced to I. A. Richards and other “New Critics” coming out of the University of Cambridge in the early twentieth century. The method made its way to Harvard, where one of its most influential scholars, Reuben Brower, taught one of its most influential classes, molding a generation of English teachers, including Charlie Chatfield, who brought the practice to Commonwealth in the late 1960s (long before he became Headmaster).

Teacher and alumna Melissa Glenn Haber ’87 lovingly tackled this period of Commonwealth’s history in the fall 2011 issue of CM, invoking a cadre of legendary English teachers: “Together, Charlie, Eric Davis, Kate Bluestein, and Judith Siporin…joined with John Hughes and incorporated Brower’s ideas into a program that would make sense to untrained (though intellectually promising) teenagers, opening their minds to Brower’s ‘complete and agile response to words,’ encompassing

tone, diction, voice, and, crucially, emotional impact.” It remains a cornerstone of Commonwealth’s curriculum, because, as Melissa noted, “it works.”

By the time Mara came to Commonwealth, the aforementioned “elders” she admired had served as bannermen and -women for the school’s close-reading curriculum for decades. “I came in, and it was instant love,” Mara says. “I was struck by the warmth of the place…and impressed by the people who were teaching in the English department. They were all super sharp but playful—especially Eric [Davis], but all of them in their own way. Irreverent, but very wedded to the work.”

Mara now sits at the desk that once belonged to the woman who recruited her: Rebecca Folkman, longtime (pre-Commonwealth) friend, French and film analysis teacher, and “sort of an ersatz mom” to her. Like Rebecca, Mara took up teaching film analysis, and she went on to develop an art-history course (much like the ones taught by Polly Chatfield and Judith Siporin, who, like Mara, bridged English and art history with alacrity). Both, Mara says, are natural offshoots of reading closely. “We’re doing with visuals what we’ve been doing in the literature classes,” Mara says. “I find that those [art and film] classes are sometimes a way in with kids who maybe aren’t quite as comfortable articulating patterns and variations in language, but they’re sharp-eyed, and they notice analogous things in visuals. Success at reading visual details can lead to sharper reading of words in English class.” Mara’s approach earned her the affectionate moniker of “sneaky teacher” from at least one student, who didn’t realize how much they learned from her until they looked back at their early writing.

Through no fault of their own, really, today’s students have grown accustomed to the Internet’s instant answers, which can breed both impressive natural content filters (“They’re much more sophisticated consumers than I was at their age,” Mara notes) and a more facile way of thinking about and looking at the world (something adults are hardly

immune to). Still, despite the noticeable whittling away of attention, teaching isn’t “any less energizing-slash-exhausting” now than it was twenty-odd years ago, Mara says, and her classroom is largely as it was in the early aughts: just students and a teacher and a text. No cell phones allowed. “That feels important,” she says, “a way of reinforcing and reinforcing that sustained attention.” And you can see that attention take root. Students’ “body language is different when they’re engaged,” she says. “Are they all engaged always? No—but they really often are. And there’s something very special about seeing a kid, head cocked, intently looking at words.”

Astudent may walk through Commonwealth’s doors a voracious reader already deeply curious about the world; close reading hones those habits into something more powerful and empowering. “The job, especially in ninth grade, is to have them slow down and truly pay attention, word by word,” Mara says. She starts with simple exercises, such as writing a series of synonyms on the board: abdomen, tummy, stomach, belly. Though the differences imbued in each word quickly become clear—a toddler talks about a tummy ache; a surgeon prepares an abdomen for incision—the act of stopping to think about those differences is often quite novel to students. “It’s awakening another set of antennae,” Mara says, “to detect and notice and hear as they read.”

Moving on to poetry, a form well-suited for close reading given its compactness, students soon pick up on things such as the prickly sounds in Ted Hughes’s “Thistles,” full of words with Germanic Norse roots that “stand out or demand to be listened to,” evoking the savagery of a Viking battle. Mara still uses several “beautiful and interesting, and syntactically challenging” Shakespearean sonnets to warm students up before introducing them to pieces such as Claude McKay’s “If We Must Die,” a sonnet that evokes the St. Crispin’s Day speech in Henry V to

Mara’s annotated edition of Beginning With Poems, edited by Reuben A. Brower, David Kalstone, and Anne Ferry

paint the U.S. as a battleground for Black men facing the unrelenting onslaught of racism.

These texts are complex, but there’s less ambiguity, because ninthgrade English is for “nuts-and-bolts sort of noticing,” Mara says. In subsequent years, they meet Zora Neale Hurston’s Tea Cake, wind through Joyce’s Dubliners, and sit with Shakespeare’s Hamlet, turning their antennae to longer works and learning to discern which passages deserve further attention, so they can tackle behemoths like Moby Dick in English 12. “You’re still building in moments of close reading,” she says, “but you’re also expanding and stepping back and maybe returning in a richer way to the ideas of themes.” Building on their close-reading skills over four years of Commonwealth English gives students “layers of reference,” Mara adds. “The toolbox is bigger.”

Mara and her fellow English teachers embrace Polly Chatfield’s policy of introducing students to a wide variety of texts, which has only broadened over the decades as more contemporary and diverse voices have been brought into the fold. “We’ve never taught things chronologically,” says Mara. Rather, teachers “throw things at [students] from all over the place” to “exercise their imaginations.” But close reading isn’t just untethered imagining or free-associative brainstorming. Some interpretations are simply wrong. “The other beauty of our classes is that they’re discussion based, so you’ve got a whole cast of characters working together to come up with an interpretation—a cohesive, coherent, complete response that is true to the text, supported by textual evidence,” Mara says. Other students often “come to the rescue” in wayward discussions, building on earlier observations in a (usually) generative way. Mara, as their guide, likes to “make things feel as playful and as collaborative as possible,” interjecting with course-correcting questions as needed. (“But what about the line that came two lines before this? How do you reconcile those two things? Can you?”)

“Inviting kids to be playful but invested feels important, because it takes energy to read in this way,” Mara says. “There are different ways of paying attention and enjoying something. And it’s not that close reading isn’t enjoyable, but it demands sustained attention and active thinking.” An advisee recently told her, “‘[Reading] is so much fun now, because I can both do the close reading and just pick up my beach book.’ Kids who haven’t had the training likely couldn’t make that distinction,” Mara adds. “And they certainly wouldn’t have the language to describe those two different ways of experiencing a text.”

“Being a close reader isn’t confined to the classroom,” Mara insists. “That’s where students sharpen the skill of noticing, but it’s also about just being open to the world.” No one is unencumbered by biases, and, wittingly or not, we already create narratives and make judgments, from the seemingly innocuous to the profound, based on what we observe. Close-reading habits help students “catch themselves” in those moments and take a step back.

“I like to think that our cultivation of close reading as ‘a habit of mind’ teaches kids to sit with ambiguities while remaining impartial, neutral, open to the possibilities, before making up their minds or coming to judgment,” Mara says. “Doing so leads to more nuanced textual analysis, but may also—I fervently hope—help to shape human beings who are careful, respectful listeners and can imagine points of view other than their own, even if they don’t necessarily agree with them...It doesn’t hurt to be able to dismantle a sloppy argument, either, which is something our kids love to do.”

More traditional approaches to close reading often leave out real-world contexts, Mara says. In her classes, “students get the critical slice-and-dice surgical analysis, but then there’s this human lens—the

context, the history—that informs how you hear the words that are being used. And I think that’s incredibly moving,” she adds. “For some kids, that’s the first time close reading feels truly meaningful, because it’s about a human being they can imagine in a particular place and time.” Even though this approach helps students imagine worlds outside their own, Mara notes that the English Department has discussed ways to guarantee that students needn’t imagine all the time—meaning they should be able to recognize experiences comparable to their own reflected in the books they read, authors they study, and characters they encounter. “I’ve had students tell me that they appreciated reading about families resembling their own in, for example, a short story about immigrants to the United States by Lan Samantha Chang,” Mara says.

So what do you do with those observations in the “real world”? “I hope that we build in the kids a particular kind of skepticism that doesn’t look or feel like cynicism but is just a healthy way of listening and attending,” Mara says. “Acknowledging implicit biases while aspiring to open-mindedness as the frame of mind with which you encounter a text—or, by extension, an argument, or a situation, or maybe even a person—feels key. One of the messages [of close reading] is that you can intentionally pay attention.” Take a longer look at real-estate listings, for example, and you might notice language that signals everything from realtor spin to outright discrimination. “Cozy” might just be code for “cramped,” but what does it really mean when an ad for a home talks about its “desirable neighborhood”? Desirable for whom and why?

Those powers of perception all flow from the same questions: “Who’s the narrator? Who’s the assumed audience? Whose language is being used? Who is being excluded?” Mara says. “You can’t really get to the answer of those things without at least some close reading.” And by doing the asking, students learn to hear the unsaid. t

Jessica Tomer is the Director of Communications at Commonwealth.

SYLLABUS SNEAK PREVIEW

Flex your own close-reading muscles by seeking out this curated collection of works begging to be carefully examined.

• Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art”

• Gwendolyn Brooks, “The Bean Eaters”

• Emily Dickinson, “Hope is the thing with Feathers”

• Seamus Heaney, Sonnet 3 from “Clearances”

• Thomas Hardy, “The Convergence of the Twain”

• Gerard Manley Hopkins, “Binsey Poplars”

• Langston Hughes, “Seven Moments of Love: An Un-Sonnet Sequence of Blues”

• Ted Hughes, “Thistles”

• Claude McKay, “If We Must Die”

• William Shakespeare, Sonnet 15 (“When I consider everything that grows”)

Commonwealth students learn how to be historians rather than passive absorbers of facts. They read and analyze primary sources from a variety of voices in their historical contexts. And they graduate knowing that a single textbook could never tell the whole story. Core to this discovery process is an annual research paper that hones students’ analytical and writing skills and challenges them to dig deep into a variety of sources on any topic of interest—whether it be debunking the “primitivist” myth around jazz, the impact of the breakup of the AT&T monopoly, or, as you will see in this recent example, how a generation of writers, seemingly “lost” in the wake of the tumult of the early twentieth century, perhaps knew just where they were going...

Searching for the “Lost Generation”

BY AVA RAHMAN ’23

When I first began this paper, my questions were centered around modernism: what was the relationship between modernist literature, which is characterized by stream-of-consciousness writing, a multiplicity of perspectives, and non-linear narratives, and the debilitating changes of the early twentieth century, mainly World War I, World War II, and industrialization? From what I had read and heard, there seemed to be a general assumption that the breakdown of traditional forms and language in modernist literature was a reaction on the writers’ parts to the breakdown of society. The war blasted people into disillusionment, made them confront the evil aspects of human nature, and left them spiritually unmoored. As I began my research, I became interested in a group of American writers called the “lost generation.” I had read Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby and T. S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, which to me represented the two aspects of the “lost generation”: their loose lifestyles and resigned disillusionment, paired with the gilded decadence of the 1920s and the pulsing undercurrent of post-war anxiety. However, over the course of my research, I became increasingly aware of how my understanding of the “lost generation” was based on a cliché created by the writers and perpetuated by the popular imagination. In reality, these “lost generation” writers saw the world through their perspectives as artists and intellectuals, standing on the outskirts of culture to examine it while simultaneously creating what would become symbols of modern culture. Therefore, for the purposes of this paper, I sought mainly to trace the emergence of the term “lost generation” and uncover a running definition of it among the intellectuals. In the end, I found that though the idea of the “lost generation” was inflated by the writers and intellectuals, their personal struggles within an age of tumult appealed to their identification as “lost,” making the concept of the “lost generation” not a myth but a broad generalization.

The origins of the term “lost generation” lie in Europe. Though it became synonymous with the young men who served in the First World War, it had first been mentioned in 1912 by Franz Pfemfert in the German literary and political magazine Die Aktion. Moreover, the 1914 generation’s distinctiveness was marked not by the war but by “technological change, shifts in the structure of society, the threat of a general European war, and the appearance of a new culture” that existed beforehand and continued throughout the early twentieth century. It is difficult to know whether the connotations of disillusionment and isolation attached to this generation are as a whole an accurate reflection, as the term “lost generation” was created not by the masses but by the intellectuals: Franz Pfemfert was a German expressionist, and therefore, according to Wohl, was implicated with “twentieth-century generationalists,” people who saw generations characterized by distinct traits, and in Europe, only “members of a small elite…keenly aware of their uniqueness.” Furthermore, its ambiguity as a phrase is reflected in the multiple generations that often comprised the supposedly singular generation, as well as the variety of connotations it took on within different European countries and, after the publication of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, in the U.S. In fact, many of the characteristics of the “lost generation” in Europe were reflected in its American meaning, perhaps because Hemingway’s famous conversation with Gertrude Stein, which inspired his epigraph “you are all a lost generation” in The Sun Also Rises, took place in Paris.

As we see in Hemingway’s account of the conversation in his memoir A Moveable Feast, neither he nor Stein created the phrase, but they added further nuance in using it. Gertrude Stein overheard the “patron” of a garage scolding the young man fixing her car, who had served in the war, exclaiming “You are all a génération perdue.” She then repeated the phrase to Hemingway: “That’s what you are. That’s

what you all are…All of you young people who served in the war. You are a lost generation.” This understanding of the phrase adheres to its European usage. However, over the course of the conversation, the term evolved from simply being the shared experience of war to an attitude of insolent indifference as Stein added, “You have no respect for anything. You drink yourselves to death.” In this moment, she was no longer referring to the young soldiers of World War I but to her and Hemingway’s social circle. Hemingway asked whether the young mechanic was drunk, to which she replied no, but when Hemingway asked if she had ever seen him drunk, she replied, “No. But your friends are drunk.” Her understanding of the “lost generation” is explained further in her work Everybody’s Autobiography, published before A Moveable Feast Here, the young war generation was “lost” in the sense that without “the influences of women of parents and of preparation,” they had not developed into maturity. Hemingway was offended by what he deemed Stein’s implication of his shiftlessness, believing himself to be more disciplined than she and her contemporaries, such as Sherwood Anderson. However, despite his condemnation of Stein’s “lost generation talk and all the dirty, easy labels,” he still reclaimed the idea of shared experiencing, wondering whether “the boy in the garage…had ever been hauled in one of those vehicles when they were converted to ambulances,” as he had done during the war. His epigraph in The Sun Also Rises, written almost forty years before his memoir, reveals his initial interest in Stein’s ideas.

His depiction of the “lost generation” in The Sun Also Rises also adds another important association to the term: expatriation. When the protagonist, Jake Barnes, and his friend Bill Gorton go on a fishing trip, Bill accuses Jake of being “an expatriate”: “You’ve lost touch with soil… You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working…You hang around cafés.”

Though Bill’s accusation could be considered a parody of the idea of “expatriation,” especially given the playfulness of the conversation, “expatriation” here is conflated with “lost generation.” In fact, it is easy to see Stein’s influence on Hemingway’s understanding of both ideas. Expatriation was a trend among many of the “lost generation” writers, including Hemingway himself, Fitzgerald, John Dos Passos, Ezra Pound, and T. S. Eliot, all of whom were Americans who spent time in Europe, specifically Paris. However, leaving America was not simply a “rejection of homeland,” as Donald Pizer terms it, but a way for them to participate in the international modernist movement, to form connections with other established artists while living cheaply and comfortably, something that was not possible in the U.S. In this way, expatriation was not symbolic of their lostness and alienation from their former culture. In fact, many of the writers, such as Stein and Pound, still saw the U.S. as their home. Rather, it was an attempt to find a foothold in the artistic world in order to inspire their work and make a name for themselves. Furthermore, expatriation could not be the primary factor determining who was part of the “lost generation,” for many other writers settled throughout Europe, in Rome, Munich, and France, who were excluded from the “lost generation,” such as Edith Wharton and Sinclair Lewis. Therefore, Bill’s description of expatriates lingering about Montparnasse, Paris, uprooted from culture and nationality, indulging in empty pleasures, misses their vital motivations for fulfillment, turning the association between being “lost” and being an expatriate into a cliché. t

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La Closerie des Lilas, a café in Paris popular with Hemingway and other members the “Lost Generation” in the 1920s

ALUMNI/AE EVENTS

A string of long-delayed reunions continued last year, as alumni/ae from the twentieth century filled the school, while folks from around the Bay Area connected during a more intimate event in San Francisco. We passed another post-pandemic milestone in the fall as well: the return of our Young Alumni/ae Reunion, as recent grads beginning their college breaks joined us for our first in-person Thanksgiving Assembly in three years. We look forward to more connecting in 2023!

Boston Reunion: Classes of 1961–1999

IMAGE CREDIT: DEREK CAMERON, 3805

PRODUCTIONS

1. Ian Gamble ’79, Lisa Gamble

2. Jennifer Borman ’81

3. Rebecca M. Steinfield ’84, Frank Steinfield ’82, Joshua Berlin ’82

4. Meg Kistin Anzalone ’64, Amy Merrill ’64

5. Aleida K. Inglis ’67

6. Emily B. Spurrell ’84

7. Barnaby Claydon, Megan Buhr ’97

8. Katina Leodas ’70

9. Amy Merrill ’64

SAN FRANCISCO REUNION

IMAGE CREDIT: TIM DAW PHOTOGRAPHY

1. Deirdre Donovan ’70

2. Yonah Borns-Weil ’14

3. Clare Corcoran ’78

4. Sue Trupin ’62

5. Jacob Sisk ’88, Magen Solomon ’74

6. Head of School Jennifer Borman ’81

7. Ko Tangen ’76, Misha Zatsman ’97

8. Daniel McLellan ’84

9. Deirdre Donovan ’70, Sue Trupin ’62, Ko Tangen ’76, Caleb Sander ’17, Jennifer Borman ’81, Matt Kraning ’04, Magen Solomon ’74, Misha Zatsman ’97, Clare Corcoran ’78, Jacob Sisk ’88, Yonah Borns-Weil ’14, Daniel McLellan ’84, Director of Advancement Alisha Elliott ’01

YOUNG ALUMNI/AE REUNION

IMAGE CREDIT: CLAIRE JEANTHEAU

1. Sophia Weil ’19, Eric Zhou ’19, August Kane ’19

2. Daria Plotz ’22, Annie Jones ’22

3. Emi Neuwalder ’21

4. Sophie Gardiner ’21

5. Former Headmaster Bill Wharton

6. Vivian Ye ’22

7. Michael Karezin ’22, Ted Carter ’23, Connor Chaplin ’22, Brandon Chen ’22, Dean of Students Josh Eagle, Thomas Fomin ’22

8. Amelia Michael ’20, Ceramics Teacher Kyla Toomey

9. Sophia Ying ’22

20 questions with... Simon Marshall-Shah ’12

Now a Policy Analyst for the Michigan League for Public Policy focusing on immigration, state budget analysis, and related Medicaid topics, Simon Marshall-Shah has worked at the intersection of public health data and advocacy practically since he graduated from Commonwealth in 2012. His answers below shed a little light on that path and offer insights for anyone with similar ambitions.

1. What three words best describe Commonwealth? Community, discussion, and growth.

2. What is your favorite Commonwealth memory? Recess. I loved having that morning break where the entire school came together to check in and take a beat. Recess also sticks out in my mind because it was a space where all announcements were welcome and students’ various interests and personalities could be heard and recognized.

3. What was your favorite Commonwealth class? Two historyfocused classes stick out: I really enjoyed U.S. History with Ms. Haber. I think it connects to my current work given that our country’s history and politics has shaped contemporary policy. And Ms. Siporin’s Art History class showed me how critical thinking can be applied across disciplines.

4. What’s your #1 piece of advice for Commonwealth students? Take teachers up on the support they offer. Commonwealth helped teach me how to navigate not knowing the answer or how to do something, and then seeking support to get that answer or do my best. This helped me immensely in college and beyond.

5. When and how did you first become interested in public policy work? Although I enjoyed cognitive science (my first major), by my sophomore year at Johns Hopkins I realized I was more interested in working outside of a lab and added a public health studies major. I also learned more about Baltimore City and its history, and better understood the legacy of racist public policy decisions and how they impact investment (or lack thereof) as well as the overall health of the city and residents. I felt drawn to public health as an interdisciplinary field that takes a broad approach to health and well-being, often with a community focus and an eye toward tackling the causes of disparities.

6. What do you wish people better understood about the intersection of data, legislation, and equity? Data that can be broken down at a more granular level by categories like race, gender, income level, sexual orientation, disability, and more are really beneficial in public policy work. This helps us identify where there are disparate outcomes and can give insight into how to root out the causes, which aren’t necessarily individual choices but systemic ones. The choices people make are influenced by the choices people have, and the latter are influenced by policy decisions, particularly those with exclusionary elements that impede access, or have otherwise led to systemic marginalization. So, disaggregated data collection can certainly be built into policies and legislation—and should be! It is harder to do any sort of equity analysis without it.

7. What is your advice for young people hoping to get involved in grassroots advocacy work? Talk to each other, build connections and community with people and organizations who care about the same issues, and educate others. Also, take time to understand why other folks may not initially agree with you and use what you hear to find information and develop persuasive arguments that speak directly to their questions.

8. What does your ideal afternoon entail? Going on a walk and catching up with a friend on a sunny day.

9. If you could study any field aside from your own, what would it be? Radio journalism. I really enjoy the medium and find audio storytelling very compelling. (Or maybe I just want to be a podcaster like everyone else?)

10. Which word or phrase do you most overuse? “Sounds good!”

11. What is your favorite aspect of your career? There is always something new to learn and dig into. Plus, I get to work with different kinds of data to connect the dots for varied audiences.

12. What are people surprised to learn about you? Given the uncertainty about where things stand at the time of writing, I’ll share that I’ve never been a Twitter user, aside from enjoying memes or funny tweets when they are sent my way… via text :)

13. What book do you wish you had read sooner? There There by Tommy Orange. I am a fan of novels with interconnected characters and stories told from different perspectives.

14. Coffee or tea? Coffee.

15. Pen or pencil? Pen.

16. Scripted or improvised? Scripted to feel confident in what I’m doing, but improvised to make others feel at ease and interested in listening.

17. What is your favorite museum? The Baltimore Museum of Art: they curate interesting exhibits, often showcase LGBTQ+ artists, are free, and have a huge Matisse collection, which includes Blue Nude and others we discussed in Ms. Siporin’s Art History class.

18. What is your favorite mode of transportation? I know the MBTA can be a pain sometimes, but definitely the subway. I miss the T (or any subway system) so much these days!

19. What do you bring to a potluck? A black bean salad with pineapple, avocado, and feta, plus a bag of tortilla chips for dipping.

20. What was your go-to Boston eatery? Finagle a Bagel. Honorable mention for the (former) food court at the Pru.

When

Your